


shall warmer, sweeter be

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Self-Acceptance, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, a case of the gends fitzgends, are we lesbians francis? i would like that very much, call that frantrans because she's not cis, pre- and post-rescue, trans female characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: “I’ve become preoccupied,” James goes on. “With death.”Francis sighs. “Oh, James…”“No, not like that. There’s no immediacy to it, it’s only… what I had never before thought about, because I never thought I could face it, myself. It… lingers. I dream of a cemetery plot, on some grassy hill, with flowers placed over it, and I can never read the grave marker, but I know that whatever it says is my name.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	shall warmer, sweeter be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carnus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnus/gifts).



> for the **_free space_** on my [terrorbingo](https://theterrorbingo.tumblr.com/) card!  
> so. this fic is about trans wlw, and though i'm an nb lesbian, i don't experience transmisogyny. i don't doubt there are things in here that i haven't thought to watch out for, and i'll be glad to correct them if anyone finds anything i've missed. also, i know that modern language about transness (and about being gay, for that matter) didn't exist when this fic takes place, and i don't think that period-typical attitudes are an excuse to portray rampant bigotry. this is intended to be a portrayal of self-acceptance, not self-flagellation, and i'll re-write if i've missed the mark.  
> tw for:  
> \- (internalized) transmisogyny: james goes most of the fic without realizing she and francis are women. up until that point, she refers to herself and to francis with he/him pronouns, and is reluctant to think of herself as a woman. francis is similarly reluctant.  
> \- internalized homophobia: tied in with the above.  
> thank you again to the wonderful, the amazing [phoebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnus) for looking this over. also, title is from _Danny Boy,_ which i'd never heard until she had me listen to it.

Strange to think how he could have hated Francis, in the beginning. How he could have regarded the man with derision, even with hatred, and worse-- with pity. How he had seen him and gone so long without-

They walk in silence for a while. The only sounds around them are the shifting of rocks underfoot and of their breath, James’ more than Francis’. Between the two of them, James is the more winded. It takes an effort to move his legs, the rusted hinges of his knees groaning in protest. In any other company, it would be harder to bear, but he is with Francis, and that makes a world of difference. The Lady Silence had once-- it feels like a lifetime ago now, though it has been just half a year-- accused Francis of wanting to die; never before has there been anyone who has made James wish more to live. A yawning pit has opened up in him, longing for more than food, growling its hunger like an empty stomach. Mostly it feels like a hole in his arm.

He looks sidelong at Francis, watches him walk pitched towards the direction in which they are headed. His steps are measured, steady in a way that James’ own are not; his boots shuffle along the shale, he lists from one side to the other, but Francis is there at his side, or he is there at Francis’. They are there at each other’s. The description hardly matters, only that they are and that there they will remain. They must. James must, or else he may fall over entirely, and he will allow himself to.

“There’s more,” he admits, after some miles. It is much easier to take the distance on foot than with the boats, but it has become exponentially more painful than walking has ever been for him. There is a sliver of enjoyment to be had with it, though, for Francis’ presence. “More I haven’t told you. There always is more to confess, it seems, when it comes to what I’ve constructed of myself.”

“Don’t feel you have to tear yourself down in the name of transparency,” says Francis, his gaze gentle on him. Sunlight through a window, it feels like. “You needn’t confess to me. I won’t assign you any penance for it, if penance is what you’re after.”

It is not, but it is still good to hear. He had judged Francis so harshly in the beginning; it would only be fair for Francis to judge him in turn, to rake him for his every flaw, but they are past that, that dealing in virtues as if of currency. “No,” says James. “I should still like to say it.” Then, with a halting laugh, he adds, “And when have you ever known me not to say something when I’ve found opportunity to speak?”

“Not often. If you did, I might not recognize you.”

He doubts that. Over the years, and especially over the walk, they-- not just the captains, nor even just the officers, but all of the men, excepting perhaps a particularly callous few-- have grown to recognize each other as if through instinct alone. There is simply no way Francis could mistake him for another, no way he could appear as anyone other than himself to Francis. Perhaps he has never been able to do so, even when he had tried.

“I’ve become preoccupied,” James goes on. “With death.”

Francis sighs. “Oh, James…”

“No, not like that. There’s no immediacy to it, it’s only… what I had never before thought about, because I never thought I could face it, myself. It… lingers.”

That can be the only word for it, how it appears at the edges of his consciousness, ebbing like the tide. It attends him patiently. Sometimes James finds himself wondering how long it has been there, waiting along for him, and if he has been a rude host to it. “It comes most clearly to me in my dreams,” he says, and this is where he finally hesitates. He finds it much too easy to bear his soul for Francis to see. There is no effort spent in it, no deliberate covering-up of the unsavory parts; no part of him feels unsavory. Rather, no part of him feels unsavory to Francis, who regards him with gentle curiosity, remaining quiet and giving him the room necessary to continue. He neither questions nor assumes. James feels he may understand him, on some invisible, intrinsic level, without him having to say a word.

For comfort’s sake, he speaks anyway. “Those dreams are coming more and more frequently now,” he tells Francis. “Not the event itself, but its aftermath. What occurs afterward. I dream of a cemetery plot, on some grassy hill, with flowers placed over it, and I can never read the grave marker, but I know that whatever it says is my name.”

He stops here. He pauses in his walking, too, as his knees seize up too much to go on, and he must wait for them to remember how to move. Francis stops beside him, a hand on the back of his elbow in a way that provides no support for his weight, but promises it, should he collapse.  _ It should be I supporting you, _ James thinks to him,  _ as your second, _ but he cannot compel him through thought alone to desist.

“The marker is not only mine,” he continues. “There’s space more for a name beneath it, and room for another body to be buried beside mine.”

“A spouse?” Francis asks him, and he nods. “A wife,” says Francis; he draws in a breath, looks to the rocky horizon, and shakes his head.

That is the unflattering truth of it. James purses his dry lips thin, forces his eyes to remain forward, like a horse with its blinders on. Francis has been kind, Francis has been nonjudgmental, but the first and scarcest hint of derision from him will send James shattering to the shale. It is not that he requires his approval, not like it had been with Sir John. Now, it is that he wishes to be deserving of this man and all of his qualities to which he had been blind before-- all the kindnesses Francis extends to his men, even to those who have wronged him. Even to Sir John, though James had not recognized it at the time for the generosity it was. He appreciates it, now. He even-

Francis hums, breaking the silence. “A husband,” he says, very quietly, though they are in no danger of being overheard. They might as well be the only people left in the world now. James finds he cannot stand it a moment longer; he turns, looks at Francis, finds him with an inscrutable expression on his face. It is not hatred, though, he can read that much. Something benign.

“A husband,” he confirms. “If there was a wife, I would be it.”

He laughs, then, a miserable scoff. He feels Francis’ eyes on him through it, their weight a comfort to which he wants to cleave himself. Odysseus had ordered his crew to stuff their ears with wax, and had them strap him to the ship’s mast, and as they passed through the sirens’ territory, he could not follow them to his death, though he could hear their song. Here, there is no song to be heard but that of wind against limestone, whistling something discordant. It is certainly no Schubert. James does not mention that the husband in his dreams, though still living and never seen, is clear to him in the same way he recognizes his own illegible name on the marker. It is Francis. It could only ever have been Francis, he thinks.

It is a moment before either one of them speaks again, and it is Francis who does. “Do these dreams strike you as… unnatural, James?” he asks. There is concern in his eyes, in his voice. It inspires honesty in James.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “In fact, they bring me some modicum of peace, when I dream them. Give me a few more nights and I may even begin to look forward to them.”

He laughs a brittle laugh, feeling Francis’ gaze on him, heavy with care in the way a blanket about the shoulders is. “I’m glad for it,” Francis says. “That they bring you peace. I only wish it were some lighter subject-- one of those parties you so enjoyed back home, or a peaceful night at sea, on a floor that rocks under your feet instead of… well, rocks under your feet.”

There is another lull in the conversation, which lasts long enough for them to add another handful of minutes to their journey. When James stumbles on the rocks, his ankles twisting or his knees threatening to buckle, Francis is there to steady him.  _ “Easy, James,” _ he breathes as he catches him by the arms, careful not to grip the softening pit of his old wound. Fog comes up around them, brushing their faces with its cold, gentle knuckles, and through it, they remain close enough to see each other.

“I can only hope I’ve not disgraced myself in your eyes,” James says quietly, “though I know that hope is a vain one.” He has dispensed with vanity, and is not quite sure where that leaves him now, shaking his head and wondering about wishing for an ounce of it back. “Dreaming of being remembered in his death as another’s wife. What kind of man longs for such a thing?”

It must be longing, if he can only admit it to himself in unconsciousness.

Francis stops beside him. For a moment, it seems as if he will grip James’s shoulders again, as he had earlier, forcing him to face him fully, but he does not. They stand less than a meter from one another, their silhouettes cushioned by the fog. They can disappear here, if they so wish.

It appears as though Francis means to say something, and then he thinks better of it. Camp comes into sight shortly thereafter.

* * *

Rescue comes in early May. Things have a tendency to turn desperate quickly, but, like scurvy, they are also quick to turn around even after they have been barreling down that hill. Bridgens insists that this is the way things go-- dire, until they are not anymore-- and, as he has seen scurvy perhaps more than the rest of them, his experience with it on par with that of the captains owing to his years, the general consensus is to believe him. James had wondered about his insistence, until he saw him tending to the arm of Mister Peglar, mottled and dark with bruises. Things were clearer from then on. It is lucky they have only made sick men’s miles, and still very few of them at that. It means rescue had a shorter distance to travel, and could sight the remnants of their camp, their slow parade leaving, before they could turn back.

They retrieve the survivors in groups of ten, and there are few trips to be made. On the ship, they are given a more concentrated solution of lemon juice and water, much sourer than anything they had taken on the expedition proper. It only helps the scurvy, and more men die even as they depart again. The officers fare better, on the whole, than the sailors.

When they reach English shores again, they are only a fraction of their starting numbers, and those who remain have faded into shadows of themselves. A separate ship carries the surviving mutineers. Diggle and Hodgson were not found, but the body of Goodsir was discovered at the camp in a condition which implicates Hickey’s crew doubly. Things are being kept quiet, but the survivors know what they have escaped, and they are not beyond guessing; their mouths had salivated at Hickey’s and Tozer’s would-be hanging when Crozier brought out the bag of seal meat.

Now, they have had months to reacclimate themselves to English cuisine. Beef, mutton, venison-- it all tastes strange, half-forbidden and half-familiar. James’ first instinct was to be wary of it, as they had become wary of the tinned provisions and the lead pellets they contained, but he has not picked metal from his teeth since he has been able to eat solid foods. To be fair, he does have fewer teeth from which to pick it. In Francis, he sees a similar skepticism, as though he, too, cannot quite trust that what he eats is not poison.

When the  _ Enterprise _ and her crew had found them, James was quite literally on his last legs. In between snatches of oblivion, he had overheard a quiet conversation between Francis and Captain Ross that suggested he might yet perish there, and that night, he had not dreamed of the grassy hill with his grave. Instead, the image that appeared to him was one of a mound of rocks, gently mounded in a way he understood to contain his body. There had been no marker, not even a board like the graves at Beechey. No room for a companion beside him. It had left him lonelier than he had perhaps ever felt, and when he woke, he had grasped blindly around him; he had not expected a hand to catch his, nor to find Francis sitting at his bedside. They had never left each other. They still have not left each other, not even since returning to English shores-- they live with one another here, because it is easier to bear the company than to endure the absence. As they are not the only men returned from their voyage who have, they find themselves freed from scrutiny. Mostly freed. There are still some precautions to take, but it is not as though they-

There comes a gentle knocking from the door. James sighs where he sits at his dressing table, trying to coax his fingers to dexterity. His joints have not been the same as they had been before the expedition’s communal illness, and though it has mostly gone away, it still comes back to haunt him whenever it so pleases.

“Come in,” he calls, and Francis opens the door, lets himself in, and closes it behind himself again. James watches him from the mirror as he stands there, his hands folded and his shoulders relaxed.

“I came to see if you needed help dressing,” Francis tells him. “I may be no steward, but I hope to claim I’ve paid attention to Jopson well enough to do a decent job of it, myself.”

He offers him a smile, catching the eyes of James’ reflection. James’ hands are tangled in his cravat with little hope of straightening out. “Perhaps I could use it,” he admits with a sigh, turning and raising his eyebrows to say  _ Well, look what I’ve gotten myself into. _ Francis comes over and takes his hands, patiently unwinds the fabric from his fingers for him. After that is done, he smoothes the scarf out himself, adjusting it around the back of James’ neck, where it crosses over itself, and at his throat, where it is flat. For a moment, his thumb presses over the place from which James’ voice comes. Something passes over his face, a tenderness that speaks of more than if he were to try and put words to it. His thumb lingers, the pad of it warm against James’ Adam’s apple, and then it is gone, leaving James with the impression of his finger and a memory of his recurring dream. If he could be wife to someone, it would be to Francis. He is not ashamed to admit it to himself anymore.

Francis adjusts the scarf around his neck, and then ties it with his thicker, nimbler fingers. Sailor’s fingers, they are, more accustomed to tying knots in rope than in silk neckscarves, but they are gentle as you please. He arranges it in a clumsy semblance of its proper form, pats it flat to James’ chest, and pronounces it done.

“There,” he says, with a humm and one of those flat smiles. “You can rearrange it to your liking, but it’s tied now.”

“Thank you, Francis,” James replies, and returns his smile with one of his own. Francis makes no move to leave, and neither does James pull away from him. They remain where they are, James sitting and Francis standing nearly between his knees, for longer than either of them would have been able to make excuses for, if they cared to make excuses. To think that such a thing had once been unimaginable. Now it is past imagination itself, bloomed into reality from circumstance and familiarity. Brotherhood, and-

James turns to the mirror again and sighs.

“Oh, what’re you sighing about this time?” asks Francis. When James does not offer an answer and only plucks at his hairline-- scarred and missing pieces, so that each day he must artfully brush his hair to disguise it-- he tries again, his voice softer this time. “What is it, James?”

In truth, James is not entirely sure, but he gives a wisp of fringe a stern yank and Francis catches him by the wrist to stop him from doing it again. His hair is not what it used to be. That is to be expected.  _ James _ is not what he used to be, nor is any other man who came out of the Arctic alive. He has endured false teeth and poor joints, so why does his hair now give him such trouble? He traces up his temple with his other hand, to where his hairline dips in in a squared corner, and as he does so, he recalls-- of all people-- Sophia Cracroft, on the occasions he has seen her, her hair framing her face prettily, her chin pointed, jaw small.

Wrenching his hand from Francis’ grip, James fumbles with his cravat. His fingers tremble, stiffen up until they are locked in the shape of two claws pawing ineffectually at his own neck.

“James!” Francis exclaims, just as James manages to get one thumb hooked through the knot and pull it loose, and with that done, he stands abruptly from his chair and throws the scarf to the floor. It flutters, as silk does, and lands in a crumpled heap. It is too wrinkled to try and wear again today, but so be it. James can’t wear the damned thing.

“James,” Francis says again, his hands going to James’ elbows, allowing him freedom of movement while still holding onto him. His eyes search James’ face, the blunt rectangle of it, the mangled hairline, the jaw like an anvil, but James cannot pull himself away. To disappear from under Francis’ gaze would be to vanish from the world completely; he is the only one James knows who can look upon such wretchedness with kind eyes. “What is it, James,” he implores him, and his hand removes itself from James’ arm to skirt his cheek. “Hmm?”

But how to explain? How can he explain at all, when he can barely let himself acknowledge it for fear of giving it permission to consume him? His starched shirt collar is unbearable. It ought to be the wide sweetheart neckline of a gown, sweeping across his collarbones. Desperate, James gives a choking laugh.

“Can you not see it?” he demands, as Francis’ hands have begun to stroke gently at his arms, careful of his old scar. “How can you look at me, Francis, and not tell?” He gestures as violently as he can at himself, one hand indicating the whole of him from head to toe.

“Tell what, James?” asks Francis. “Tell me what I’m supposed to see, will you?”

“Fraudulence.”

James turns his head and hisses the word so as not to spit it in Francis’ face. Bless the man, his face hardly changes at all. The only change is the tilt of his brow, encouraging James to elaborate in the hopes that it will make him understand.

All the vehemence flees James at once. “Do you know that I’ve raked through my wardrobe,” he asks, suddenly feeling very tired, “trying to put together something that doesn’t feel like a costume?” He shakes his head, looks toward the closet in question. “I’ve not found a single garment that doesn’t.”

Francis looks towards it as well, and is quiet for a long moment, considering it. “Your uniform,” he suggests at last. “What about that?”

James considers it, too. “Hardly fits me anymore, I’d say.”

“Well, that’s what tailors are for, and, luckily, we happen to know a good one,” Francis replies. “Bridgens would be pleased to have our business.” He catches James’ eyes, where they are reflected in the mirror, and the two of them watch each other’s reflections like that. They look ridiculous next to each other, James too tall and too wide about the shoulders for someone with Francis’ dignity. At last, Francis asks, “But what do you want to wear, James?” and James blinks.

“I’ll find something,” he replies, but Francis shakes his head and says, “That isn’t what I asked.”

Red, a stark contrast to the pale landscape they had barely left with their lives, maybe burgundy or something purpler.

“I don’t know,” says James. If Francis believes him for a second, he must be the best liar there is. He does not say so, but it is clear in his eyes that Francis does not believe him for a moment. His hands trail along James’ arms to his wrists.

“We know a fine tailor,” he reminds him. “If need be, we can borrow clothes from one of our friends- no, James, if you will wear it, if it will make you feel like a man again, I will get it to your dressing table.”

The dream springs to mind again, a grave on a grassy hill, room for another beside the plot of freshly-turned earth. Still he cannot make out the names on the marker, but it is a handsome one, polished and engraved, a job ordered by someone who knows the pair, and the years read:

_ 1813 - …  _

_ 1796 - _

A man is not something he will ever feel like again, James thinks, and the thought nearly produces a sob from him. His shoulders jolt with it; Francis appears more distressed by the second, his brow furrowed and turned up in the middle so that his eyes-- his pale eyes-- are blue rings swimming in white. He wants Francis’ thumb on his throat again, to feel his care for such a delicate piece of him. Never before has another person handled him in such a way, no one but Francis.

“There’s nothing,” James answers. The look on his face must be wretched as he admits aloud what he has been so afraid of saying. “I can’t- Francis, what if my clothing all feels like costume pieces because I feel like a man in them? What does that… what sort of a man is an impostor of his own sex?”

The grip on his wrists flinches, but does not leave. Francis’ brows raise and then drop again, and his eyes scan James over, from his face to his shoulders to his waist. One might think him to be be scrutinizing him, cataloguing him, even, but James knows him better than to do that. His regard is soft as a powder brush as it takes him in anew, and James decides that this must be what love feels, when it is given. If Francis can love him, if it can be as gentle as this…

“You asked me such a thing once,” Francis says, after some time, during which they have not stepped further from each other. “Do you remember? You asked me what kind of man dreams of being remembered in death as a wife.”

James nods; he does recall this. It had been so long ago, long enough ago to double the time he has held Francis in fondest affections. Francis humms, a curious look on his face.

“As much of a man as she wishes to be,” he says. Then, he looks unsure. “Have… If I’ve read this correctly?”

“Yes,” James says. The thought had never come to mind, not in its fully-realized form, but now grows as if Francis had nurtured the seed all along. Again: “Yes, I… yes. You have.”

Francis’ hands trail further, finding James’ and holding them. James lets out a laugh, first incredulous, and then almost mirthful.

“We’ll find you something to wear,” Francis promises. “Anything at all you desire. Gowns or trousers or a damned chiton, we will find something.”

There are logistics to consider-- who will make the clothing? what excuse will they give for it, or will Francis go to the shops alone, looking for gifts for a lady friend? who would make such clothing even after receiving James’ measurements?-- but that hardly matters in the face of everything. She feels reborn; more than that, she feels rediscovered. She still feels decked out in costume, but now it feels as though she has put it on of her own volition. There is no one to fool, nor is she fooling herself; she is a woman in men’s clothing, and it seems obvious now, when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

“You sound as though you’re making promises to your dear wife,” she ventures, nudging Francis’ leg with her knee in jest. To her utter surprise, Francis’ jaw clenches, and he drops his gaze. “Oh, no, Francis…” she breathes, freeing her hand to touch his face, and then thinking better of it. What if he does not want her to touch him? Has she misread him? But he catches her hand, threads his fingers between hers with an expression both sad and wistful.

“I’m afraid I’ve secrets of my own to confess,” Francis says, his voice so low that even a person standing in the same room would not overhear. “I could not be a husband to you. I’m sorry for that, because… because I’ve lied to you, and because if you asked me to be one, I would in less than a heartbeat.”

“You love me,” James says. She is certain of it by now. Pulling Francis’ hand towards her, she kisses his knuckles, lets them rest against her lip.

“I do. But I cannot be your husband-- I cannot be a husband at all.”

“But you would.”

“But I would!” Francis gasps, louder than intended, for the way his face contorts at the sound of it. “I would. But I couldn’t. You must…” Now, he finally looks up at James again, at the spot where her lips touch his hand. “For the same reason you dream of being buried next to a husband, I could not occupy that plot.”

Tears have sprung in Francis’ eyes, well-hidden by the tilt of Francis’ head. James reaches out anyway, smoothing her thumb along the crease under Francis’ eye. There is a tiny scar just above the lid and below the brow; she leans down to kiss it.

“Then if you can’t be my husband,” she tells her, “I will be your wife, and you… you can be mine.”

Francis’ grip on her hand tightens. She makes a sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I would like that very much,” she answers. Laughs again. “Very much,” as James cradles her face and presses kisses to her cheeks, sharing all the love Francis has shown her. She deserves every ounce of it there is to spare, and James will not skimp on her ration.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://edward-little.tumblr.com).


End file.
